


Honey

by ChemicalChance



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:18:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemicalChance/pseuds/ChemicalChance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ward had been taunting him all day with sharp shoves and sharper words, to the point that Robb had issued a weary reprimand, expecting Jon’s temper to flare in response. Robb hasn’t a clue, and Jon would feel guilty about it if he had the capacity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey

**Author's Note:**

> So,,, I should have been doing homework and I wrote head-on, "no artistic merit" porn.

No one goes hungry at Winterfell – at least, no one ever has in Jon’s lifetime. Winter will be different, he’s sure; he has no doubt his father will expect he and his children to bear with whatever sort of bland austerity is necessary to see that none of his people starve. Jon would expect no less, would be ashamed to think that there were others going hungry so he or his family could indulge. Jon doesn’t quite have the run of the kitchens, not even Robb does, really, but no one thinks to stop him when he steals into the kitchens for a heel of nearly-stale bread slathered in honey. It helps, he supposes, that there’s been a matronly old woman who has delighted in feeding he and Robb morsels of sweets since they were boys no higher than her knee.

He’s not even hungry, not really, supper was scant hours ago. Even though he’s always loved the taste of it, the interplay of soft bread with honey crystallising and growing gritty on its surface, he’s not really eating it only for his own pleasure. Robb and Theon are sitting at the table in the hall he left them at, and Jon sits, angling the bread so that the honey that hasn’t soaked into the bread yet doesn’t spill and make everything he touches sticky. He mumbles a greeting around a mouthful of sweetened bread, and Robb laughs and makes a friendly jape about his taste for sugar, one he’s had for years.

Theon doesn’t say a word to him, which might not be strange in and of itself. Jon sinks a canine into his lip to hide his grin when Theon’s eyes narrow, almost accusing. The ward had been taunting him all day with sharp shoves and sharper words, to the point that Robb had issued a weary reprimand, expecting Jon’s temper to flare in response. Robb hasn’t a clue, and Jon would feel guilty about it if he had the capacity. Theon’s been playing a game with him, a game they’re both beginning to know the rules to all too well, and Jon means to win. He sinks his teeth into the morsel he’s gathered and tips it towards him a little, letting the honey spill out and coat his lips, managing not to cringe when some of it spills over onto the corners of his mouth, where he knows it will dry tacky and encrust in the untamed growth of beard across his jaw. 

Theon pointedly looks away from him, turns to Robb and begins talking about their training that day. That won’t do, and Jon bites into the bread again, letting out a soft, subtle noise of pleasure at the taste that coats his tongue. Theon’s gaze flicks to him, almost imperceptibly, and Jon’s tongue darts out to lick the honey from his lips. Dark eyes flit to him distractedly while he finishes his treat, making a mess of it. There are advantages to how soft spoken he tends to be, not least that Robb doesn’t question it when he doesn’t say a word as he and Theon carry on an idle conversation. Robb doesn’t notice the way Theon focusses mostly on the table, the way he’s casting short glances at Jon when he’s not, and Gods treat his brother kindly, but Jon’s grateful enough for Robb’s habitual obliviousness.

Jon finishes the rest of his bread without making much of a show of it, then frowns and says, “I’ve made a terrible mess. I always do.”

Robb looks away from Theon then and laughs, says that perhaps Jon should exercise greater restraint in covering his bread with sugar, but it has the desired effect on Theon, who hardly seems able to peel his eyes from the way Jon licks and sucks the lingering confection from his fingers. When Jon’s cleaned them to his satisfaction, he begs exhaustion – Robb says he’s tired because he’s made a glutton of himself – and claps Robb on the shoulder and bids Theon a curt good evening. 

Then he goes to his chamber, and he waits, restless with the discomfort of the dried honey on his skin.

He doesn’t wait long, not more than ten minutes sitting restless with the discomfort of the honey, before Theon comes through the doors of his chambers with as much urgency as his damnable pride will allow him.

Jon stands, an insouciant grin playing at his lips that would better suit Theon. He’s barely gotten out, “Greyoy,” before Theon is kicking the door shut, slamming his shoulders back against the wall and biting at his lips in a thing too harsh to be properly termed a kiss. Theon coaxes a low groan from him as his tongue slides against his lower lip, tasting what’s left behind, and Jon lets him, pliant. Theon pushes his tongue inside Jon’s mouth, chasing what’s left of the saccharine taste there before pressing his thumb harshly beneath Jon’s chin, tilting it up to bite and lick at what remains on his beard and jaw, dipping his head to lap up a drop that strayed to his neck.

Jon moans both in relief and pleasure when Theon’s tongue swipes the last of the unpleasant tackiness from his skin, and Theon delves lower, seeking more, before he abandons his quest with a growl, righting himself. He delivers a final punishing nip to Jon’s lip that leaves Jon trembling against him before seizing Jon’s shoulders again, pressing him down.

“On your knees, Snow,” he snarls. Jon would bristle if he didn’t know he’s already won, but he has, and so all he does is grin and reverse their positions, pressing Theon back against the door. It’s not the best assurance of privacy they could have, but if Robb comes looking for him, it should be enough.

Jon sinks to his knees and palms Theon once, relishing in the shiver the pressure elicits before making quick work of his laces. Jon could swear there’s a little stubborn stickiness hindering the way his mouth seals over Theon’s cock, but if there is it’s no more than a hint of sweetness over the salty musk of Theon’s skin, and the strangled, breathy noise Theon utters almost immediately is sweeter than the bread he's just eaten. The way his mouth pulls at Theon’s cock, the way Theon’s thighs tense and tremble under his palms is a better reward than any taste ever could be, and Jon moans in spite of himself. He’d nearly hated himself, the first time he’d realised how much he liked doing this, but then he’d realised that he’d never had Winterfell’s ward more in the palm of his hand than when his lips were wrapped around him and his tongue was milking his cock.

It doesn’t take long once Jon’s got his nose buried in the nest of curls at the cradle of Theon’s hips, a few moments of gasped breaths and wet, sloppy slurping noises before Theon is keening deep in his chest and his hips are surging forward. Jon groans around him, swallowing eagerly, working him until Theon’s knees begin to shake and his hand knots in Jon’s hair, pulling him away with a hiss.

Jon helps him down, allows him the respite of a few panting breaths and the vague tenderness of lips pressed against his chest before he bites down on the skin beneath his lips, and Theon grunts.

“You bastard,” Theon mutters breathlessly, with none of the bite he might usually show. “You’d best not think I’m done with you.”

Jon surges forward to shove his tongue between Theon’s lips, making him taste the bitterness that rested where sweetness had been scant minutes before. He climbs atop Theon’s spent form, grinding against Theon’s oversensitive lap and making him shudder. “No,” Jon manages thickly when he withdraws. “I was rather counting on it.”


End file.
